It was silent.
It was still.
That hour was a lonely place -
One in which he couldn't hide.
His thoughts were clear and loud.
There was the silence required to meet his naked self.
And there were the thoughts to scrutinise that self.
Then the silence thickened to cover,
With a concrete crust,
That early hour.
No breeze broke the solid air.
The streets wore their emptiness like black capes -
Covering their breath till the morning came.
With momentary screeches,
Lone cars haunted the roads.
The church-bells' ghostly message sprang out, head first,
Of the enclosing dark.
That time was a sanctuary for the rat
Which stalked the streets it owned.
It sniffed hard the air
For still-warm waste.
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